


All Discarded Lovers

by Scarecrowqueen



Series: Gift Fics Xmas 2013 [4]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gift Fic, Homelessness, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:37:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarecrowqueen/pseuds/Scarecrowqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourth in my series of Gift fics.</p><p>Saying Kozmotis had troubled dreams of the boy would be incorrect, for one would have actually had to have been sleeping to call them dreams.  The boy haunted him, refusing to let Kozmotis forget and move on as he wished too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Discarded Lovers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [APurpleAvacado](https://archiveofourown.org/users/APurpleAvacado/gifts).



> Gift fic for APurpleAvacado; who requested 'a modern AU, in which Pitch ends up finding Jack somehow, in an Alley, and beat up and unconscious. And despite having a bad day, Pitch decides "fuck it" and takes him to the hospital, whereupon it becomes apparent he is homeless and even though Pitchiner is trying to convince himself that he doesn't care, ends up visiting Jack a lot until he is released. He doesn't know what possesses him to do it, but he invited Jack to live with him. Pitch is going to be tetchy about the whole thing because he's in denial'

All discarded lovers should be given a second chance, but with somebody else.  
\- Mae West 

The groan barely caught Kozmotis’s ear as he strode past the mouth of the alley. Most days, he wouldn’t even have bothered to stop, cold as it was; but today something compelled him to do so. He carefully picked his way down the filthy expanse of concrete between buildings, finding within moments the clumped, dirty and obvious injured figure. Pitch stared at the boy for a moment; for that’s what he was, a boy in his late teens or early twenties, and pinched the bridge of his nose, face screwed up into a grimace of dismay.

The boy had obviously been jumped; likely for the contents of his wallet. Dumped here, injured on one of the coldest days of the year, the kid was as good as dead without Kozmotis’s help. Grumbling, Kozmotis pulled out his cell phone, dialling 911 with long, elegant fingers. He supposed he had no choice but to play good Samaritan. Kozmotis wasn’t a bleeding heart usually, and even less so on days like today, when he’ just been denied a visit with his daughter over Christmas by his bitter ex-wife, but he wasn’t so cruel as to leave a boy in such poor condition where he could freeze to death. Shrugging off his coat, Kozmotis tucked it around the slim, frail body, hoping it warmed the boy up some before the ambulance arrived. The cold bit into Kozmotis the moment the jacket was gone, but he stoically endured. The ambulance was getting close anyways, if the sirens in the distance were anything to go by. Just a few more minutes and he could be on his way with a clean conscience back to his small condo and the bottle of fine brandy he’d been saving for just such a miserable day.

The paramedics loaded the boy swiftly, frostbite already a concern as no one knew how long he’d been outdoors before being found. One of the accompanying police officers was kind enough to drive Kozmotis home, which was much appreciated since it looked like he wasn’t getting his jacket back. Not that he’d wanted it returned after he realized that the boy had bled all over it. Replacing it wouldn’t be an issue; Kozmotis’s rather lucrative real estate business assured that he would never be in want for any monetary indulgences, but he was somewhat put-out over it regardless. Settling himself in front of the large gas fire place in his sitting room, Kozmotis nursed that brandy, thinking mournful thoughts about his daughter, his vicious, backstabbing, unfaithful ex, but mostly about the young man he’d helped. The boy had fine, elfin features, with rich brown hair and a small scattering of freckles across his nose. Kozmotis hadn’t seen his eyes, but the body was long and gangly in the way that most young men are when they hit their final growth but before they gain the weight to fill their new height out properly. 

Kozmotis supposed he was attractive enough, if one went for the skinny youthful types, which he didn’t. Or rather, he didn’t want his ex to know he did on occasion, or she’d just drag him back to court and run his name even further through the mud be making him out to be some sort of horrible child molester. Which was a blatant lie, as Kozmotis found nothing attractive about children and preferred not to babysit his partners, thank you very much, but his former wife lived to ensure that he was punished for all sleights he’d committed against her during their marriage, but truthful or perceived, and doing anything in her power to deny him his daughter and to sabotage his repeated petitions for joint custody were by far the most hateful but effective of her methods. Kozmotis sighed, braining the glass and leaving on the kitchen counter as he made his way to bed. Tomorrow, he’d try his wife again, hoping that there would be a scrap of mercy in that shrivelled, wrathful heart. He may not have been the best husband; usually too concerned with his business ventures to be as attentive as he should have been, but he’d never failed as a father, until his wife’s anger and envy had driven them apart. Since that day three years ago, Kozmotis could count the number of times he’d seen her on one hand, and certainly never alone; the shrew forever hovering and haranguing both for the duration. His daughter was his world and he adored her so, but unfortunately she was also the best weapon against him and Kozmotis for all his wealth was unable to convince a judge of his good character over his wife’s pleas to the contrary. Slipping into an uneasy slumber, Kozmotis only hoped that his little girl would forgive him his failures and shortcomings eventually.

Come the next evening, Kozmotis was at a loss to explain why he was making his way to the hospital from the office, instead of home. It definitely didn’t make sense that he’d stopped to purchase small potted Gerbera either, but stop he had. There had been a news bulletin earlier about the attack, listing the boy’s name, but no mention of family had been made. Kozmotis wanted to assume that the boy was even now being doted on by his frantic parents, but he knew better than to assume anything of the sort. The nurses wanted to refuse him entry, but when he explained his story, they caved quickly. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that he’d been the only visitor besides doctors and police since the boy had been brought in. Kozmotis strode into the room with purpose, instantly noting that the boy was asleep, likely due to the painkillers that were doubtless attached to his IV. Kozmotis set the plant on the bedside table; the flower easily the cheeriest thing is the white-washed and sparse room. He then availed himself of the boy’s medical chart; mild concussion, bruised ribs, a handful of old wounds, and the most worrying was the persistent malnutrition and chest infection. The name is listed as Jackson Overland, age 19. More than likely, Kozmotis thought, returning the chart and eyeing the slender figure on the bed, the boy was homeless. A transient maybe, possibly even a prostitute. There were many things one would be willing to do to earn a hot meal and a safe place to sleep, Kozmotis knew. Regardless, it wasn’t his problem. He’d done his duty as a concerned citizen already; no more could be expected of him. Kozmotis left with the same deliberate briskness with which he’d entered, having barely stayed ten minutes. The walk home seemed more tedious than usual, and it wasn’t long before he gave up with any semblance of normality and instead crawled into bed. 

Saying Kozmotis had troubled dreams of the boy would be incorrect, for one would have actually had to have been sleeping to call them dreams. The boy haunted him, refusing to let Kozmotis forget and move on as he wished too. Rising in the middle of the night, Kozmotis wandered to his kitchen for a hot tea. Sitting at his dining table, Kozmotis cast an eye over the stainless steel appliances and granite countertops in his kitchen. He thought of the expensive Persian rugs scattered across the new hardwood floors and of the two empty rooms upstairs; used by neither guest nor his daughter as intended. Kozmotis thought about 300 cable channels and a fridge full of groceries and a pantry that was never empty, of the $3000 multi-head steam shower with built in stereo in his bathroom and the hot tub on the generous balcony and all the thousand little things he took for granted because he’d never felt the bite of a paycheck that didn’t come.

Kozmotis had more then he needed, even if he didn’t have what he wanted, in the form of his daughter. What did a boy like Jack have at all, with neither a home nor family to comfort him?

Kozmotis returns every day to the hospital, eventually meeting Jack face to face. They boy had rich chocolate brown eyes, full of wariness and confusion, but not lacking in gratitude once Kozmotis explains himself. They speak, shy and hesitant, over many topics but skirting the unhappy ones; Jack’s homelessness, the one ugly conversation Jack overheard when Kozmotis’s ex-wife had called. The each had their demons lurking in the shadows, and neither felt like dragging them into the light just yet. The day before Jack was to be released, Kozmotis left and envelope at his bedside, the boy having been napping when Kozmotis had arrived. Inside was his address, phone number, a spare key to his house and the unmistakable invitation for a safe, comfortable residence with no strings attached. Leaving the hospital for possibly the last time, Kozmotis wondered what had possessed him to such folly. The boy was kind and likeable, if somewhat incorrigible. His daughter would love him, but his former wife would hate him, and heaven knows what rumours she’d whisper to a judge’s ear if Jack actually trusted him enough to accept. The decision was made however and Kozmotis, while nervous, could not deny that he’d done the only thing that had felt right. The boy had no reason to trust him most likely; Kozmotis could only imagine the abuses the boy had suffered in the past, possibly from trusted sources. When his cell phone rang later that evening, Kozmotis wasn’t sure if he was surprised or resigned to his luck when Jack quietly asked for a ride home the next day.

On Christmas Eve, Kozmotis escorted Jack to the little-used guest room at his condo under the pretense of helping the boy heal, and turn his life around, all the while wondering what he'd gotten himself into. Ten years later, Kozmotis watched his daughter and his husband baking Christmas cookies together in a home full of love and laughter, knowing that he’d been wrong; it was him that needed Jack’s joy and light to turn himself around, all along.

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted to my Dreamwidth and Fanfiction.net


End file.
